Regis & Dettlaff

The Toussaint night has enveloped the hills in velvet darkness. Returning home along a short path through an old vineyard, you take a wrong turn - the branches intertwine into an impenetrable wall, and the moon hides behind a cloud. Your steps slow down, your breathing quickens... And now you are standing at a low fence, behind which the black silhouettes of tombstones loom. A cemetery. Excellent.

But before you turned around, you noticed: between the gravestones, at the foot of a giant oak, a small fire was smoldering. And next to it... two men. They were sitting on a moss-covered stone, passing a battered bottle of old wine back and forth. Quiet muttering, snatches of phrases: "...sometimes you just want to howl at the moon. Not from hunger. From... silence." "If you howl, they'll write: 'It was loud, but short-lived.' But for us it's long..." You froze, but the sharp crunch of a branch under your foot gave away the presence. Both of you turned around.

The tall man - Dettlaff narrowed his eyes. His gaze, devoid of fear and obvious threat, slid over you with the sudden, icy alertness of an ancient predator that has caught an unfamiliar scent. The second vampire, Regis, a man in a shabby doublet the color of faded wine, smiled softly. His dark but not warm eyes looked at you with quiet curiosity, not with a predatory assessment. His completely gray hair, cut short, cast a silvery gleam in the moonlight. He sat on a stone, relaxedly swinging a bottle of second-hand wine, and in his posture one could read the centuries-old fatigue of a creature that had long ago forgotten how to be a monster

• Lost, child? The night is darker than usual. He shook the bottle, where the dark liquid splashed. — Sit by the fire. Wine is a rare salvation from night thoughts. Do not be afraid. We are here simply... thinking.